


your voice (is a weapon)

by gureisu



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: 707 | Choi Luciel's Real Name, Accidental Voyeurism, CCTV, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, MC is "you" and "she/her", Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, Voyeurism, almost angst but barely, another 707 cctv fic, cause i can't get enough of this shit, porn sort of plot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gureisu/pseuds/gureisu
Summary: Your voice had always been sweet and soothing, a balm, a tonic, a warm blanket wrapping him up in its delicious sound. It was also, he realized in that moment, impossibly, indescribably hot.He was falling apart—a sleep-deprived, horny, depraved wreck of a man. With shaking fingers, he lifted his phone. Of course it was your name on his screen.--A new twist on the classic 707 voyeurism fanfic.
Relationships: 707 | Choi Luciel/Main Character, 707 | Choi Luciel/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 259





	your voice (is a weapon)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is.
> 
> My personal sacrifice at the altar of 707 CCTV voyeurism fanfiction.
> 
> There's a million. I've read (and loved) 'em all. It seemed about time that I write my own—and I've put my own twist on it, so hopefully there's at least a slight element of surprise. Even if there isn't I hope you enjoy this smutty porny smut.
> 
> Fyi I've decided Saeyoung thinks of himself as "Saeyoung" in the present and "Seven" in the past, because I feel like he didn't even wanna dare use his real name even in his own thoughts for a period of time (poor bby).
> 
> Oh oh and spoilers for 707's route and SE and everything :3

Saeyoung is alone with his computers.

As usual, he has a faint headache—he’s so used to it he hardly notices anymore, the vague whirring of the room indistinguishable from the constant humming inside his head. When he thinks about his life, first he sees blue light and green numbers. If he tries to remember his past, he remembers code before he remembers words and people.

At least, that was the way things were—the endless loop of numbers, a convenient tool to keep him numb—until recently.

One leg taps a comforting repetitive pattern as he types. It’s not a hard job, relatively speaking. He can think as he types, lines of code appearing on the screen as if of their own accord.

For a long time, he couldn’t let his mind drift. If he did, he spiraled fast—down a tunnel of his own solitude, alone in his buzzing room in his impenetrable bunker, a cockroach barely even living, existing more inside other people’s computers than in his own body.

Now, as he types, for the first time in his life, it feels safe to let his mind wander. Whenever he daydreams now, it’s of you.

_You._

The light in his underground world.

The speed of his typing picks up almost imperceptibly as his mind floods with images of you, preserved forever in his perfect memory. Your hair blowing into your eyes as he rolls down the window of his car, his long fingers on your bare thigh as he drives on the highway in his baby with you in the leather seat beside him. Your eyes crinkling as you laugh at something he’s said; your arms wrapping around his waist when he’s scared but he doesn’t want to say so; your shoulders, your chest, bare, his fingers running down across your—

_God._ He has to cut himself off. Since that first night he spent with you—the fevered kisses and desperate touches and skin on skin and _teeth_ on skin and your sweet warmth in him and over him and around him—his blood pounds in his veins whenever he thinks of you. _Not since then_ , he thinks, amused with himself. Since the first day he saw you, the first time he heard your cute voice through the phone. But it’s worse now— _or better, so much better_ —the way his head spins and his skin burns with the icy-hot memory of you. Because now what’s in his head isn’t just fantasies, dreams of how it might be to be with you. Now he _knows._

But he can’t let his thoughts go there right now.

There are still hours of work ahead of him. His hacking days are nearly behind him, but the last step is to erase any trace of his existence from the cracks and crevices of the agency’s institutional memory. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to erase his existence. It was the first time he’d wanted to.

He only had a few _you_ -less hours. Since the worst was behind him now—since Saeran was improving every day, letting his bleached hair grow out and going back to therapy (under a fake name, of course, and so far without hitting, stabbing, strangling, or otherwise injuring his therapist)—you were usually there, lighting up his previously prison-like bunker with your innate warmth. You were cooking for the brothers, coaxing Saeyoung to eat something other than chips and Saeran to eat something other than pure sugar. You were laughing at dumb reality shows, gradually worming your way into Saeran’s heart. You were raising your eyebrows at Saeyoung’s decorating choices (Saeran agreed, of course) and gradually transforming the bunker, the highest security hideout in the country, into a home.

But today, you’re away for a few hours, gathering your remaining belongings from Rika’s apartment. _To bring them here_ , he thinks, gleeful, and there he goes again, picturing your legs peeking out from the pile of blankets on his bed and your fingers against his skin and your face alight with pleasure and—

_Ahhhhh._ Nope. No no no. Not again. He needs to pull himself together. But lately, it’s like every nerve in his body is on fire, all the time.

While you’re out of the house he needs to get some work done. For as long as he possibly can.

But that feeling—it’s too familiar, and it makes the whole thing much worse somehow, the yearning and pining for your face and voice and touch.

It reminds him of his previous life—not so long ago, really—the feeling of desperation as he tried to work, frantically typing as he mind strayed, his imagination full of you as he raced against the clock to keep you safe. It felt illicit then. _No one can ever know_ , he’d thought, as your voice sent him into a spin. Now, _everyone_ knows. And it still makes his head spin. But now, he spins right back into your arms.

_Huh?_

He looks up, distracted. He even stops typing for a moment.

_How did I—?_

Without meaning to, lost in his memories, he has pulled up the cameras. The CCTV cameras. _The you cameras._

_What am I thinking?_ He runs his fingers through his already-disheveled red curls. _It’s all too much_ , he thinks—the not-so-distant memories, the camera feed always on his screen, the compulsive checking (every 2.35 seconds). His body has set patterns.

Without even meaning to, he glances at the feed. It’s not the first time he’s automatically pulled up the camera feed in the past two weeks, clicking it mindlessly as he types. At those times, the feed has been empty—of course it has, since he’s had the 3D version with him, the real you, asleep in his bed or working on your laptop in the living room, the real-life flesh-and-blood manifestation of his dream girl.

This time is different. Because for the first time in weeks, you’re actually in that apartment.

Unable to stop himself, he scans the screen, checking for signs of movement. The hallway is empty, and he feels a familiar sinking feeling, a baseless worry—if you needed him, you’d call. But not seeing you has never felt good.

He stares at his screen, work forgotten, willing you to come through the door—testing the limits of what he suspects is a telepathic connection between the two of you.

And he is both thrilled and unsurprised when you appear.

You step through the door, carrying a small cardboard box. Your long hair is tied back in a ponytail, and it swings as you bend down and set the box amid a small pile of other items. You pause, and his breath hitches. He knows—without knowing why—that you know.

You look straight into the camera and flash him a big smile.

_Well, damn._

Instantly, he’s swept up in the delightful knowledge that, as always, you’re just as aware of him as he is of you. And in the midst of that little surge of pleasure, he’s catapulted back in his mind—to a memory he’d buried so deep he’d almost forgotten it was there at all.

* * *

It was only the sixth day—as if his life were even measured in days rather than forty-eight hours bouts of working broken up by restless sleep—that Seven had known you.

Somehow, after another stretch of mind-numbing work—which, to be fair, had consisted mainly of staring at the CCTV and accidentally typing your name into his lines of code—he’d found himself dialing your number. Again.

He knew it was time for some kind of break, because his vision had blurred around the edges until his line of sight was a single, fuzzy point, with black edging in from all sides. His stomach rumbled uncomfortably, full of chips and Dr. Pepper and nothing else. When was the last time he’d put actual food in his body? He felt, frankly, _bad_. But he was used to that: the vague ringing in his ears, the stars swimming behind his eyelids, the sense that his stomach was imploding in on itself. These things were the norm for him.

He should’ve collapsed face-first on his mattress and offered himself a few mid-day hours of (hopefully) dreamless sleep.

Instead, he found his feet leading him through his bunker (empty, dark, piles of trash looming on every surface—Vanderwood was going to kill him). He made his way through his security system, his multiple gates, and his garage. His fingers pressed the call button.

He needed the sun, he thought blearily. Sun (the real one, the one he rarely saw) on his face, sun (the better one, the one he felt inside his chest when he heard your voice) in his ear.

You picked up right away, and he didn’t even remember what he said. He knew he was babbling—he’d do anything just to keep hearing your voice. He didn’t think he was making any sense.

He wasn’t sure why you even kept listening.

_She probably listens when any of us call her,_ he thought viciously. _It’s practically her job._

_Or—_

But he didn’t let himself think it.

You were so _cute_. Your voice, your laugh, your little sneeze. He felt like he was losing it. His whole universe was following orders and keeping his shit together. Suddenly, he was in pieces.

His feet turned him back around—he had so little control over his own body, lately—and marched him straight back through his multi-level security system. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he _needed_ to check the cameras again. He knew you probably weren’t in the hall—why would you be?—but just in case, he needed to know.

You were still speaking as he sank back down into his leather computer chair, feeling his legs screaming at him to let them move around just a little more. He said something weird to you again and he felt his cheeks heating up. He needed to learn to just keep his stupid mouth shut.

He stuttered over his words. He told you he was going to hang up. He didn’t miss the disappointment in your voice and he didn’t miss the twinge of regret he felt in his gut.

“…No,” he said, and paused, not sure where he was going with this. “Could you say goodbye for me, just once?” he finished. He knew how pathetic he sounded, whining for your affection like a child. He clenched his hands into fists. One of these days you were going to get sick of him.

“Goodbye,” you said. Your breath hitched as if you were considering something. Then: “Mmhmm…” you moaned.

_What?_

He nearly jumped out of his chair, all weariness forgotten. Every muscle in his legs, which had previously felt like dead weights, was alive and on fire.

_Whaaaat._

He realized he’d yelled out loud. Like the idiot piece of garbage he was.

“I’m not gonna be able to sleep tonight!” he scolded, cheeks flaming. “You did that on purpose, right?”

You didn’t answer.

Feeling his brain short-circuiting (literally? maybe literally), he mumbled something about calling you later and frantically hung up. Before he—before he started to—

Seven leaned back in his chair, breath coming hard.

Your voice had always been sweet and soothing, a balm, a tonic, a warm blanket wrapping him up in its delicious sound. It was also, he realized in that moment, impossibly, indescribably _hot_.

All thoughts of his work vanished, he turned his attention to the cameras. He tried to get a hold on his breathing as he scanned for any sign of you.

For the millionth time, he wished there were cameras in your bedroom and not just in the hallway.

Right, because he was an absolute garbage fire cockroach of a human being.

In spite of himself, he stared at the door to your room, willing it to open with his whole heart and soul.

And—of course, because somehow you could read his mind like the goddess you were—it opened.

And he nearly fell out of his chair.

The first thing he noticed was your shoulders, as you cracked the door and stepped hesitantly into the hall. He’s never seen them totally bare before, but now your hair was pulled up, your neck and shoulders delightfully exposed. His gaze scrolled down your body, taking in the new data. The image was a little pixelated—he mentally cursed the camera quality, wishing he’d updated the cameras before you’d appeared in his life—but he got the gist. You were, inexplicably, irrefutably, wearing only a towel.

Seven felt his legs start to shake—and it wasn’t because of their discomfort with the hours spent sitting, not this time. That towel was— _way_ too small. _I’ve got to buy her a better towel_ , thought his jumbled mind. The stupid, horrible, wonderful towel was tied tightly just above your— _gulp_ —breasts, but he could make out the general shape of them through the thin fabric as well as the shadow of your cleavage poking out. He couldn’t make out the curve of your waist beneath the towel but his mind filled in the details easily, the way your body curved in and then back out, your hips full and soft and probably warm and—

Your thighs peeked out. Another new thing. You walked carefully and he knew that if you took too big a step he would see so much more and he willed you to, willed the towel to ride up and for him to just catch a glimpse—

His brain was on overdrive, his thoughts spinning out of control. As if in a trance, he watched you make your way down the hall, ever so slowly, painfully slowly.

He was horrified to find that his jeans were becoming much too tight.

He gritted his teeth, willing the feeling away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen.

He focused on his breathing, trying to slow down his pounding heart, but it was all too much—your thighs brushing against each other as the edge of the towel grazed them and your soft voice and that little _moan_ and you were still walking, how were you still walking, and—

With a click, the bathroom door opened and closed, and you were gone.

_Thank god._

He jammed his hands firmly in his pockets, and immediately regretted it, feeling his fingers graze against his swollen cock through the fabric of his jeans. That gentle touch was almost enough to push him over the edge. His pants were now unbearably tight, and he could see his cock fully tenting in his jeans, straining against the fabric.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets, biting down on his fist.

_What the hell._

He couldn’t. 

He absolutely could not.

_But you had to know…_

His head was spinning. That little moan on the phone was on purpose—it had to have been. You’d been flirting with him for days. But—platonic flirting. Right? Goofy silly fun flirting, the kind the 707 who lived in the messenger did with _everybody_. _Like this, though?_ But it wasn’t like you took it seriously, took _him_ seriously, you probably talked to the others like that too, you were so friendly with everyone, so obliging…

But you _knew_ he had cameras in the hallway.

He realized he’d let his hand drift back down, skating across his torso, dipping down and rubbing against the bulge in his pants.

_Ugh._ He was the lowest of the low. He deserved to live in his underground dungeon forever and ever and never see or speak to another person again.

_But…_

It wasn’t like anyone had to know.

_Plus_ , he thought almost viciously, _who takes a shower at 11 AM, anyway? Who walks around in a towel when they know they’re under surveillance?_

The misplaced anger helped, somehow, and his fingers were on his zipper before he knew it, and he sighed in relief as he cock was freed from the restrictive fabric.

Now that he’d started, he didn’t think he could stop.

He pulled himself free of his underwear, a little too ferociously, letting out a little moan as his calloused fingers grazed the sensitive flesh.

_Never_ , he thought vaguely, _have I ever felt this turned on before._

He stoked along his length once, gasping with relief.

It wasn’t like anyone could hear him, locked away in his private bunker. All alone.

He gripped himself harder than he normally would—not like he did this a lot, anyway, usually too wrapped up in work (and the repression it offered) to even think about pleasure—and pumped against his own hand, his hips bucking erratically.

_Oh my god._

He was already so close, barely able to keep it together. He felt himself falling apart, sweat beading on his forehead. He ran his other hand through his bangs, clutching at his own hair in desperation.

And, unbidden, your image swam across his mind. On the screen, all he saw was an empty hallway. In his mind, though, you re-emerged from the bathroom, towel clutched to your chest, water droplets beading on your exposed skin. He pictured you smiling mischievously up at the camera and then oh-so-slowly untying the one knot holding that piece of fabric over your body. He saw the towel pool around your feet and the curves of your perfect body, damp and totally bare. And then it was as if he had his hands on you, and he pictured how he’d touch you, caressing your sides, covering your hips and breasts and stomach and arms and shoulders. And it was your hand that was grasping his cock, feeling it pulse under your fingers, feeling the needy way his body trembled for you. His imaginary self surged over you, pinning you beneath him, right there on the cold hallway floor, and you were so wet and ready for him, and he entered you, your walls warm and wonderful around him. He pumped into you, feeling your tightness all around him, and the walls of his mind were closing in on him and, in reality, he needed one hand to grasp the arm of his chair to keep himself upright as the scene exploded around him.

He came, harder and more furiously than he ever had before, your visage burned into his mind, and the imagined sensation of you all around him pushed him on, and he shouted out loud, all desperation and need.

Then Seven fell back in his chair, panting and sweaty and sticky.

For a moment, he sat like that, just catching his breath, his eyes unfocused, the dark room slowly swimming back into focus around him.

_Oh my god._

_Oh my_ god.

The realization of what he had just done dawned on him gradually.

He’d just jacked off.

To a girl he liked.

Or.

A girl he knew.

A girl he liked talking to.

A stranger, basically.

Without any indication that she’d be okay with it.

And, after all, how could she be?

He was the dirtiest, most worthless person to ever exist on this planet.

He couldn’t have hated himself more.

He stumbled to the bathroom to clean himself off. _The only thing to do_ , he thought, _is to try and forget. It never happened. I’m all alone and this never happened._

He brought towels back to the computer room, scrupulously wiping over the chair, the desk—just in case. He didn’t need any further speculation from Vanderwood about how disgusting a human being he was. He already knew.

He wiped his glasses on his shirt, sinking back into his chair. His headache was already coming back.

Automatically, he glanced at the camera feed— _don’t look, don’t look_ —and scanned for signs of you. Had you returned to your room while he was away? Did he wish you had? He deserved to never lay eyes on you again.

But of course, as if on cue, you appeared again at that moment—hair dripping onto your shoulders, that dreadful (wonderful) towel tied around your chest. You padded back to your room, and he watched in awe and horror as you paused at the door, turned, looked curiously up at the camera—and gave it a coy smile.

_Oh my god._

His phone buzzed beside him and he almost fell out of his chair.

He was falling apart—a sleep-deprived, horny, depraved wreck of a man. With shaking fingers, he lifted his phone. Of course it was your name on his screen.

“Thinking of you~” was all the text said.

Seven shot out of his chair, the fire already building within him again.

What was _happening_ to him?

He sprinted to the bathroom and took the longest, coldest shower in the history of time.

* * *

Saeyoung laughs bitterly, his face in his hands.

In the days that had followed, he’d buried that shameful memory under so many layers of 707’s Very Best Repression that he’d almost truly managed to block it out.

And, more recently, the thrill of actually coming to know your body, feeling your warmth against him and around him, actually _making love_ to you as you called out his name, eager and willing and longing for him—well, that had far surpassed his memory of that one lonely, desperate morning.

But now—

On the screen, he watches as you bend over your stack of books. He sees the way your jeans hug the shape of your butt, the way your shirt rides up and exposes the smooth skin of your back.

He is embarrassed—but less surprised, now—that a familiar sensation is building within him, that his lower body is growing warmer and his heart is beating faster. 

_Oh man._

He grabs his phone, hitting the speed dial without even looking down. He keeps his careful eyes on you as you pull your phone from your back pocket (and your fingers graze your hipbone as you do so and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair). He sees your face light up, sees you answer the call and eagerly hold the phone to your ear.

“Hey, babe,” you sing into the phone, and he feels his face growing hot.

_She’s my girlfriend she’s my girlfriend she’s my girlfriend,_ he chants to himself like a mantra.

“H-hey,” he says, embraced at the way his voice catches in his throat. Just like the old days. He knows you hear it too, and you look up at the camera as a knowing smile plays over your lips.

“Saeyoung? You’re watching me right now, aren’t you?” you ask, wiggling your fingers playfully at the camera.

It’s all too much for him.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers. “And I, uhhhh. I have to tell you something. Right now.”

“Yeah?” You sit cross-legged on the floor of the hallway, gazing up at the camera.

He has to get it out, right then and there, before he changes his mind.

“Okay, so do you remember the day before we, uh—before we met?” You nod. “S-so we talked on the phone that morning, right? And then, uh. You, um. U-uh,” he stutters.

Suddenly, you start to laugh. It’s more of a—cackle.

“Then I went to take a shower,” you say, your voice swimming with mirth.

“Y-yeah.”

You stand up slowly, luxuriously. You stretch one arm over your head, and he can see the skin above the waistband of your jeans again, can imagine the shape of your hipbone, the way you feel pressed against him, how than skin feels under his teeth.

“Did you enjoy that day, Saeyoung?” you lilt into the phone, and he can tell you’re just loving this.

“Did I—enjoy?” Oh god, he should have known. He wriggles in his chair again, not wanting to admit that he’s totally hard. Again. “Oh god, you absolutely knew what you were doing, didn’t you?!”

You burst into a fit of giggles.

“Oh, honey,” you cry, through your laughter. “Did you think I didn’t? Did you think I—I—just wandered into the hallway, which I knew you had under surveillance, in a towel, just by accident?” He sees your shoulders shake with laughter. You’re smiling.

His cheeks are hot. 

“At the time, I was uhh—I wasn’t—thinking clearly,” he mutters.

You beam at the camera—at him.

“How about now?” you ask, your voice growing soft, almost—lustful. Is he imagining it?

“Am I thinking clearly now?” he asks, gripping the arms of his chair, his knuckles white.

“Are you?” you murmur. Then you stretch again, but this time your fingers graze against the buttons of your shirt. You unbutton the top one. Then another. Then another.

He sees your pink bra, the one he watched you put on that morning, peeking through your shirt. Your fingers keep moving.

He is transfixed.

“Oh—oh my god.”

Lower, lower.

The buttons are all undone now, the shirt hanging open, your chest and smooth belly fully exposed, and your fingers hover over the button to your jeans.

Your turn from him, shrugging your shirt off so he can see your back, the strap of your bra. With lithe fingers, you reach behind and unhook it.

“How do you feel now, babe?” you practically purr into the phone.

His blood is racing.

“I—I—uhh.”

His cock is now fighting valiantly to be freed from his pants, and he automatically runs a hand over it, just once, but it brings no relief—it just makes the situation so much worse.

You turn to face him, one arm draped lazily over your breasts. You moan softly into the phone as your other hand flutters over your stomach and goes lower, lower, gently stroking your own thigh. You flip the button of your jeans and then unzip them, slipping out of them with ease.

He feels like he might die from blood loss to the brain.

Your finger ghosts over your underwear and you moan again, and he hears the unbidden desire in your voice.

“Saeyoung,” you whimper, brushing little circles over your underwear. 

“Yes,” he breathes. He would give you anything in that moment, would do anything you asked.

“How soon can you get here?” you whisper back, your voice needy.

A bolt of electricity shoots through him, and he stands up so fast he almost falls over his chair.

“T-ten minutes,” he mutters, stumbling over his words as he nearly trips trying to get to the door. “Ten minutes.”

“I’ll be right here,” you say softly.

“Don’t move,” he says firmly, taking long strides across the bunker. “I’m serious. Don’t move a muscle.”

It takes him about eight minutes to get to you, because he speeds.

He sends a text to Saeran as he drives. His brother usually naps in the afternoon, making up for literal years of sleeplessness. Chances are he won’t even see the text.

Saeyoung rolls down the windows of his Ferrari, feeling the breeze cooling his cheeks. He’s definitely not thinking straight—he’s still rock hard, and he wiggles in his seat, trying to find some relief. He grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The fact that he makes it in one piece is a real testament to his driving.

He parks much closer to your apartment than he has before, but he still sprints to the door. He pounds in the code with numb fingers.

What if—

What if it was all in his head.

What if you’re not even there.

What if you _are_ there but he misunderstood.

What if you think this whole thing is disgusting— _he_ is disgusting.

Breath coming hard and fast, he throws open the door.

And there you are—right where he left you. You sit on the floor in the hallway, one leg propped up, your arms wrapped around your leg, your face tilted to the side. Your cheeks are flushed and you gaze up at him with longing in your eyes.

The door falls shut behind him, but he barely hears it.

“You waited,” he says huskily. He knows you’re taking him in: his red cheeks, his messy hair clinging to his forehead—the erection that he knows is fully evident even through his jeans.

“Saeyoung, come here,” you say softly. He sees his own desire reflected in your beautiful eyes. He walks to you, faster than he meant to, crossing the hall in just a few strides. You tilt your face up and he bends over you, kissing you fervently. He’s swept away by your lips, tasting of your favorite vanilla chapstick. He relishes the way your breath comes fast against him.

He tangles his fingers in your hair, deepening the kiss, gently taking your lower lip between his teeth. You moan softly and then you put both hands on his shoulders and push him so he’s stumbling back, standing at his full height over you. He gulps, taking in your position; you’re kneeling before him, still clad only in your underwear, panting and gazing up at him with a look of such adoration. And then you’re sliding your fingers along the seams of his jeans and— _ah_ —skimming over his erection before slowly, far too slowly, undoing the button of his pants.

He feels relief at first as you tug down his jeans, at least partially freeing his cock. Relief turns to desperation and you tug his underwear down and draw closer, your lips just barely brushing his tip.

“Oh my god—” he moans, senses totally overwhelmed, and you take him halfway into your mouth. You’re so warm and wet and he feels all the blood drain from his head and his hips twitch. He grips the edge of his t-shirt with his fingers, jaw tight, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

You exert a gentle pressure on him as you slide him in and out of your mouth a few times. When you add a hand, gently cupping his balls and massaging his base, he can’t take it anymore. He feels the burning pleasure building almost to a peak and it’s way too soon and his legs are shaking and he’s almost—

He pulls himself from you, somewhat more roughly than he’d meant to.

“Saeyoung?” You say his name softly, still kneeling at his feet, and he thinks he might die.

“I-if you keep doing that, this won’t go the way I want it to,” he gasps.

He comes to his knees in front of you and pushes you back against the wall, and you comply so easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, melting into his touch. He leans into you and feathers light, hot kisses over your neck and with his other hand he caresses your thigh. He drifts upward and ghosts a finger over your underwear and then pulls away, running his hand down your leg.

“Please,” you moan, and he can’t tease you anymore, he just can’t, so he slips two fingers under your underwear and pulls it off. You help him, lifting your hips, and with your underwear still tangled around your feet he presses one finger questioningly against your clit. It’s already so swollen, practically pulsing with need. He rubs it softly and feels your thighs clench around his hand, chasing the sensation.

He dips one finger inside you and crooks it in the way he knows you like, delighting in your wet heat and the way his name falls from your lips.

He roughly pushes you down and then flings an arm out to catch your head, guiding you to the floor. He feels your legs shaking and he grips your thighs tightly as he throws himself to the ground. Slowly, gently, he pokes out his tongue, first licking around your slit. You groan, your whole body shaking, and he obliges you, flicking his tongue ever-so-softly against your clit.

“D-don’t stop,” you cry, fingers gripping his hair, painful and delightful. He picks up speed, tasting you, delicious and familiar and thrilling. He picks up speed, flitting over you, grasping your legs—so hard—as he caresses you with his tongue—so lightly.

Your hips start to buck up against him and he knows you’re about to come. He flutters his tongue over you again and again and your thighs close around his torso and your pelvis trembles. You gasp as your orgasm crests and you press into him, shaking against him. He dances his tongue over you, riding you through it, and he feels as you start to come down, matching the rhythm of your breath as your hips sink back to the floor.

He peppers little kisses over your thighs and his heart pounds in his chest and he feels the blood pounding in his cock, totally exposed and begging for contact.

“More?” he whispers, his voice thick. Helpless beneath him, you nod your head.

With both hands, he scoops you up, scrambling to a sitting position and tugging you into his lap. You tear his t-shirt off and his jeans and underwear are still hanging around his hips but he doesn’t care, he can’t wait anymore, he needs to feel you around him, and he can’t stifle a moan as you run a hand over his cock, from the base to the tip, and push up with your hips, gracefully guiding him into you.

_Oh._

He feels his hips automatically stutter as he slides into you, your hot, wet walls clinging to him. For a moment, he’s still, gritting his teeth. You lift your hips and he raises a hand, stilling you.

“Wait,” he whispers. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to slow his heart. When he’s got a tiny bit of control over himself, he opens his eyes, meeting yours: big and bright and shining, pupils blown wide. “Okay,” he says.

You begin to roll your hips over him, tracing a little figure-eight pattern. He groans, gripping your shoulders as you slowly close around him. He feels like you’re holding his life in his hands and, at any moment, you could end it. God, he loves you so much.

He dips forward and grazes your shoulder with his teeth. You change up the rhythm, thrusting against him, and he bites down. You cry out and he leaves bite marks all down your neck.

You thrust into him again and his brain is melting, and he lays back, matching your rhythm, thrusting back up into your hips. Your breath comes heavy and he feels you lean back, controlling the angle, so he thrusts into you harder, knowing the angle is good for you too, feeling you clench around him as your thighs grip his hips.

The pace is torturously slow, and Saeyoung’s whole body is trembling. He flips you over suddenly, and you squeak as he pins you to the floor, now straddling your hips. He picks up the pace, rolling his hips over you, and he feels like his eyes are rolling back in his head as he slides in and out of you and you’re _so_ wet and tight and he’s on fire and he feels his need building within him like a volcano, sparks burning him from the inside.

“I—I can’t keep it together anymore,” he grunts as you wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him even deeper, making him see stars.

“Come for me, baby,” you whisper, and then you lean up and bite his ear.

So he does, his vision finally blacking out fully as he fills you, grasping at you, bruising your hips, moaning a stream of words that are somehow all your name.

His vision returns gradually, a pinprick of light widening till he can take in your face, your sweaty bangs stuck to your forehead. As the wave of pleasure recedes, he catches his breath, and you pet him with one hand, pulling his crooked and totally steamed-up glasses from his face.

“H-hey,” he pants, smiling blurrily at you.

You wink at him and giggle. As you laugh, you clench around him again, and a little moan escapes his lips.

“Oh my god, seriously don’t do that unless you want to go again literally right _now,”_ he mumbles, carefully extracting himself from you.

“You couldn’t possibly,” you laugh, slipping off of his lap and sitting beside him, leaning back against the wall. 

“Try me,” he says, and he feels a wicked grin spreading across his face. He wriggles the rest of the way out of his jeans, which had become tangled around his ankles. He leans against the wall beside you, and you both sit in silence for a moment, in that empty hallway, surrounded by your discarded clothing.

“Back then,” you say finally, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Did it bother you? That I did that? You know, the—parading around the hall in a towel and all.”

He chuckles, unable to help himself. “ _Bother_ me? Did it bother me? Th-that, uh…definitely depends on your definition of bother.”

You laugh too, your cheeks blushed. You turn to peer at him. “Did you, uh…?”

He doesn’t say anything, but you understand. He lets his face fall into his hands, cheeks hot.

“I thought I was the worst person on the face of the earth,” he admits.

“What can you do? I’m literally just that hot,” you say. It’s quiet for a moment, then you laugh, prying his hands from his face and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Sorry for teasing you,” you say softly. “I just—I wanted you so bad I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

He nods slowly, extracting his arm to wrap it around your bare shoulders.

“Me too,” he admits. “I was putty in your hands. I was all yours.”

“Yeah?” you smile at him, nuzzling into his neck.

“Yeah,” he says. “From the very first time I heard your voice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Weapon by Bastille ft Dan Priddy, F*U*G*Z, & Angel Haze (it seemed fitting) ;)


End file.
